Song of Old Mother
by Lavender and Hay
Summary: Mrs Crawley gets some bad news. One-shot, after the first series.


**An idea I got for one f my earlier fics but didn't elaborate on it much. Set after the first series. Title borrowed from William Butler Yeats. **

She had been sitting in the same chair since one o'clock despite the fact that it was almost five now. There hadn't been anything to do. No one to talk to, apart from a brief word with Molesley as he came in to dust the sideboard. But that was silly, even when Matthew was here he wouldn't be usually getting back until now; the fact of the matter was simply that she had spent the whole afternoon idle because she didn't want to do anything. The usual array of activities had presented themselves but she hadn't worked up the will power to leave that chair for long enough to do any of them. Perhaps that was the way things were going to be from now on. She sighed and turned to look out of the window. The brightness of the light was harsh on her eyes, having spent the time gazing at the shadowy wall.

It was so beautiful outside. Spring was a time for birth, not death. She had lost her son three weeks ago. Her boy; her Matthew. She sniffed harshly again, trying to prevent herself falling back down into this spiral, this viscous cycle of regret, anger, loneliness and more anger. This bloody war. Though it would have previously made her flinch to think in such vulgar language she didn't seem to mind this time. What did it matter any more? It wasn't as if anyone could tell what she was thinking anyway. She snorted harshly, finding her handkerchief and dabbing at her eyes again. Ellen was washing rather a lot of handkerchiefs lately. She had been all right that day up until then, she had managed all the way from breakfast time without crying once.

She was fine in company, she was not accustomed to putting raw emotions on display to an audience. It wasn't difficult to that them graciously for their condolences without really allowing the meaning to sink in. It was in the quiet moments that it got to her, when she allowed herself to reflect on what had happened that she fell apart. Killed in battle, on foot, gun in hand, fighting like a hero. There was some poetry in that, she thought bitterly and had she been a girl reading it in a book no doubt she would have been quite profoundly moved by the whole concept. Now it just felt like she'd been hit with a train. She was gulping now, mopping up the tears as they came thick and fast. It was such a bloody waste.

She heard a floorboard creek outside. Molesley, no doubt. That brought a small smile to her face at least. Molesley was so good; he knew she liked to be left alone when a burst of emotion came over her and was doubtlessly cowering outside torn between his orders and what he doubtlessly considered to be gentlemanly behaviour. She resolved to cry more quietly so as to avoid making him feel awkward.

She was glad that someone had grasped the concept of leaving her alone. Not that the rest of the family hadn't suffered a loss too. But she couldn't help but feel her loss was something greater than theirs. She was his mother. She had held him in her arms as a child, fetched him from school when he didn't like it, visited- and embarrassed him- on his first day working in a lawyer's practice. Lady Grantham had naturally called immediately the news was delivered and Lord Grantham- calling being a woman's occupation- had invited her to the house to see them. They had been kind to her, there was denying it, offered her anything in their power to try and make her feel better. She had nodded humbly, thanking them but saying she could manage just as well by herself.

Much to her surprise she had received a call from their housekeeper too. Having always admired Mrs Hughes' for her apparent iron will when working, she was somewhat in awe of the nerve the woman must have had to work up to go and see her. She was grateful for it; it was a refreshing change to talk to someone who was breaking the boundaries of propriety just by being there, it made for much more liberal conversation. In a way, she had thought once Mrs Hughes had left, both of them were experiencing having an empty house- a concept alien to both of them. But then, watching out of the window, she saw Mrs Hughes cross the path and meet with a man in a suit who, when he turned around, turned out to be Mr Carson and she felt isolated once more: the housekeeper was not quite as isolated as she was.

That was the feeling she got no matter who sat opposite her; they did not quite grasp what she was going through. They tried to, they really did, but never managed it. Lady Grantham had lost a child, certainly, but she hadn't held that child in her arms first. Lady Mary, who was almost a frequent visitor, had lost someone but in quite a different way. Mary had lost the man she had turned down an offer of marriage from, Isobel had lost the boy she raised. A knock at the door stirred her from her reverie.

"Come in," she called out. Her voice sounded hoarse.

Molesley entered looking nervous.

"I'm sorry to disturb you ma'am," he began, obviously taking the handkerchief into account, "But Lady Grantham's in the hall."

"Tell her to come in," she told him, "I haven't seen Cousin Cora since I was at the house last week."

"Not Lady Cora," Molesley replied, somewhat uneasily, "Lady Violet, the Dowager Countess."

Well, that was a new one. She tried not to raise her eyebrows but probably failed.

"Well... I suppose you must show her in, then."

Molesley departed swiftly. What on earth did the Dowager Countess want to see her about? It had been three weeks, yes, but could she not tell that she probably wouldn't want to talk? There was no more time to dwell on the matter, however, her visitor followed Molesley back into the room and Isobel found herself standing in greeting. Lady Grantham took a seat without being asked.

"Would you like tea, my Lady?" Molesley asked her.

"Tea would be fine, Molesley," the Countess responded and sent him on his way.

Left along together, the women seemed at a loss of something to say, at least Isobel was; she doubted she'd live to see the day when Lady Violet was and imagined that she was just working out how to say whatever she was intending to. She searched for a topic, uncomfortable with the prolonged silence.

"I suppose you know that Sybil is intending to sign up as a nurse." 

The Dowager looked perturbed at her companion's choice.

"I have," she allowed, a look of disapproval never far from her features, "But I am not here to discuss Sybil."

"I see."

"Do you, Mrs Crawley?"

The brusque manner of address shouldn't have surprised her but it was sudden and so it did. She frowned at the Dowager, waiting for elaboration.

"I suppose you think I'm here to make a nuisance of myself," Lady Grantham went on, "And I'll grant you, sometimes I am. But this time... this time I want to say how sorry I am. For your loss."

It took her a moment to register what she was hearing. The Dowager Countess seemed to exhale and then continue.

"Mrs Crawley," her tone provided almost a soft contrast to her previous one, "I don't mind telling you that it would kill me if anything happened to Robert. Of course it would, he's my son. I can imagine how hard this has been for you. And I'm truly sorry." 

Isobel surprised herself: she was crying, in company. She supposed that she had just been taken by surprise. She had found the understanding she'd been going mad for for the past fortnight in the most unlikely candidate, it was almost laughable. Lady Violet looked almost awkward at the overt emotion, but did not try to make her stop. Almost nervously, the older woman reached across the small table and placed her hand upon Isobel's in a gesture of comfort.

"There, there Mrs Crawley."

So they were still on title terms, then, she thought. Well, it would have been rather odd to be anything otherwise but still the countess kept her hand there. She gave a last hearty sniff.

"Thank you, Lady Grantham."

**End. **

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